relieved his duty would end in eight more hours, he rose and headed down a long hallway toward Vanessa’s bedroom. Naughty by nature, one tabloid had called her. Just last month, she’d been caught in a compromising position with her Russian tutor, Ivan Petrovitch. When a tabloid photo alerted INS, Petrovitch had been deported, and after that, his wife left him because of the affair with Vanessa.
What a mess.
And everybody in the Secret Service still talked about Kenneth Hopper. Hired by the senator to keep an eye on Vanessa when she was flunking out of school after her mother’s death two years ago, Kenneth had barely stopped her elopement to a gardener. Ever since, he’d been pulling embassy duty overseas.
Fortunately, Morgan was the kind of guy who learned from others’ mistakes, so he’d steered completely clear of Vanessa. Halting his steps, he glanced down. Seeing no light shining from beneath her bedroom door, he leaned to slip the love letter through the crack. As it left his fingertips, he wondered who the writer was and if the besotted guy was aware of Vanessa’s bad rep. Morgan had been to the Blues Bar himself, an artsy, smoky joint in Georgetown where saxophones wailed until the wee hours, so he figured the writer was the kind of guy who usually hung out there, rich and looking to meet manor-born types.
As he headed downstairs, Morgan sifted through the male faces he’d seen at the Presidential Kids fundraiser. Which man had written the letters? And why didn’t he sign them? “Forget about it,” Morgan muttered. Unless the guy was sending explosives, he wasn’t Morgan’s problem.
Frowning, he realized it was pitch-black in the stairwell leading to Lucy’s suite. He figured she’d at least turn on a light for him, but maybe she’d fallen asleep again. Or maybe she didn’t like having sex with the lights on. Some women didn’t. Or maybe she figured Morgan could find his way in the dark since he’d memorized every inch of the house for security purposes. Pausing at the top of the stairs, he peered into the inky darkness. “You in here?”
That scratchy, sexy voice floated toward him. “I don’t know. Let’s see if you can find me.”
He grinned, letting the rustle of covers guide him while he visualized the brass bed he couldn’t make out in the dark. By the time his thigh hit the mattress, he’d pulled the shirt tails from his slacks and loosened his tie. Chuckling, he tumbled into bed, and a stunned second later, she’d grabbed his shirt tails and ripped his shirt off. Gliding his hands over the duvet, he got more aggressive, too. He massaged her feet, then her calves, then her thighs. When she didn’t protest, he began to explore.
She was different than he expected. Way different. Her legs longer. Her sighs softer. Her breasts smaller. Amazing how deceptive women could be until you got them into bed. Her bold responsiveness, however, didn’t surprise Morgan in the least. For weeks, her glances had offered the pleasure he was about to take.
Encouraged by slow moans Lucy wasn’t bothering to conceal, Morgan reached to rake his fingers through her hair—only to find it bound in something that felt like a turban. Giving up, he caressed her neck instead, then gently pushed back the duvet, his heart missing a beat when he discovered a skimpy nightie. Given Lucy’s practical uniforms, the sexy nightie, which revealed most of her, came as a pleasant surprise. It was every bit as silken as the endless, bare legs he began to stroke…every bit as smooth as the never-ending tongue kiss he glided over her collarbone…every bit as inviting as the involuntary whimper she released in tandem with the dragging sound of his zipper.
She whispered, “Happy Valentine’s Day, Morgan.”
“It’s turning into one,” he whispered back. Kicking his remaining clothes from the bed, he wished the light was on so he could see her, but he quit worrying about that once she was naked. He set to work then, delivering a string of wet kisses that ended with a tongue swirl to the pebbled tip of a breast. Sucking in a ragged breath, he said, “Why don’t you shut your eyes again?”
Her voice melted into the darkness. “Shut my eyes?”
“Yeah,” he returned, her sighs spurring him on until his mouth was delivering such sweet torture that she began arching her hips, seeking him. “Shut your eyes,” he repeated, his warm lips hovering just above hers, his huge hand settling firmly between her legs. “Because everything that’s about to happen to you, sweetheart, is going to feel like a dream.”
VANESSA VERNE was not about to argue. It was a good thing Morgan had figured out she was sleeping in Lucy’s bed. Otherwise, they’d be missing this exquisite pleasure, since he was being reassigned to headquarters tomorrow. Her lips curling into a smile, she did exactly as he commanded, relaxing all her muscles until her limbs felt loose as liquid.
From the first moment she’d seen this man, she’d told Lucy she was sure there was something worth exploring. She’d imagined it would be exactly this way, easy, uncomplicated, satisfying. As he trailed his fingertips from her knees to her thighs, the electric sparks in the caress seemed nothing more than a warning for the lightning bolts to follow. She grinned in the dark, thinking maybe she should have worn her tennis shoes.
And then she startled. The phone rang, and her mind protested at being called back from a place of warm, dark bliss. “Sorry,” she murmured, fumbling for the phone and wondering who it was—her father or Lucy. Trying to disguise her voice, she kept her words brief so she’d sound more like Lucy. “’Lo?”
It was her father. “Are you in bed, Lucy? Before you turned in, I meant to discuss the menu for tomorrow, because Mrs. Bell called in sick.” Mrs. Bell was the cook. Vanessa half listened as her father offered excuses for the late-night call, the real purpose of which was to see if Lucy was really in bed—which of course, she was, just not in her own bed. Lucy had snuck to the garage apartment to sleep with her fiancé, which was why Vanessa was here—to cover for her. Fortunately, the call was brief, and as soon as Vanessa replaced the receiver, the hands that had stilled on her thighs began moving again.
“Everything okay?” he whispered.
“Now it is.” She smiled in the dark. “Weren’t you saying everything’s going to feel like a dream?”
“Yeah, sweetheart.”
“Show me,” she urged, the sudden raggedness of her own voice surprising her, her hands exhibiting unusual urgency as they threaded into his hair.
And show her, he did.
THE NEXT MORNING, Morgan sighed with satisfaction. Downstairs in the kitchen someone was rattling pots and pans, which meant he’d better get a move on, but he didn’t want to open his eyes, not yet. He’d slept like a baby. And no wonder. He couldn’t believe how many times he’d done it with Lucy. Or how many different ways.
Listening to her bustle around the room, a well-pleased smile claimed his lips. How had she gotten up without alerting him, though? Usually, the slightest sound awakened him. The Secret Service taught a man to sleep with one eye open. If Morgan didn’t know better, he’d think his new lover had just come in from outside. “Lucy,” he murmured, his voice throaty as he opened his eyes. “Is that you?”
“This is my room. Were you expecting someone else?”
The low rumble of his voice was a testament to how content he felt. “Only you.”
“Is that right?” Lucy Giangarfalo was standing uncertainly near the doorway, squinting at him as if he were the most forward man on the planet, which, he guessed, last night he’d proven he was. His smile broadened.
Surveying
